


INSTINCT  Secrets & Lies

by Dandeleo



Category: Instinct (TV 2018)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-14 15:26:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16915464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dandeleo/pseuds/Dandeleo
Summary: I'm sure I've written a travesty, but this is a novelisation of the controversial season 1 episode 3 because I needed to see all of the information with the main characters in one place, as canon. Written originally as a screenplay by Christopher Ambrose, murdered by me amalgamating the two versions into one into prose. Any compliments, thank Mr Ambrose and the creators, James Patterson and Howard Roughan. Any complaints - I'll wear those.





	INSTINCT  Secrets & Lies

**Secrets & Lies **

 

Lizzie held the door open for me like the feminist she is, and like the gentleman I am I thanked her. She was leading me into her home, the heart of the Homicide Division of the 11th Precinct which had just become my new employer. I was well aware that I had to make a good first impression on her fellow detectives. Sure, they met me during The Dealer case but then I was just a consultant on the side; now I was a team mate. I was one of them, a cop… well, cop-lite, perhaps.

It was a nice, modern, open plan office with light and warmth and the lingering smell of brewed coffee and men’s deodorant hastily gushed on after early morning P.T. Desks were arranged in twos and fours with snazzy low glass partitions allowing those seated to talk to their partners opposite – or play a quick game of ping pong - with enough table top space to stack personal objects, cups, stationary and piles of paper. That myth of the paperless office? It’s a myth.

Lieutenant Jasmine Gooden emerged from her office when she saw us enter and approached with a smile on her face that seemed to me a little forced. “Welcome to the team, Mr Reinhart,” she said.

I smiled and tried to be tactful. “Thanks, and it’s _Doctor_ Reinhart. There’s… there’s just no way of saying that without sounding like an ass, is there?” I chuckled.

“Nope,” she agreed too quickly and turned on her heel.

My first impression was not looking good. Lizzie gestured around the room but kept on towards her desk. “Meet the team _Mister_ Reinhart,” she stressed, smiling at my discomfort, “I’ll be over there.”

A tall, weather-worn middle-aged man gestured at me. “Liz, we’re meeting your partner. You’re not sticking around?”

“Already met him.” She was already working at her computer, cutting me loose.

Three other men approached to greet me, more friendly than I had anticipated in such a macho environment.

“Hope she offers you more support out in the field,” a solid man with short cropped hair wearing a cheap suit looked me up and down as he held out a hand. “Detective Rafael Sosa. You wanna know something crazy? I was gonna wear the same exact outfit today.”

The other detectives laughed at my expense. I’ve been hazed worse and over more than my choice of tailor.

“Hahaha,” I managed.

Another tall man, stubbled and well-groomed shook my hand. “Sergeant Harris.”

I remembered him well. Lizzie had kneed him right in the crime scene during our last case because he apparently had a ‘roving tongue’ when he was her partner. “Yes, we already met,” I said.

“Hey, congrats on catching The Dealer.” He sounded sincere.

“Thanks.”

A short, balding older man with an expressive, round face leapt close and shook my hand firmly. Vigorously. “Detective Jimmy Laredo. Coffee’s over here!” This was obviously his main concern as a cop. Bet he liked doughnuts, too. Hello, stereotype.

“Great,” I said.

The first weather-worn guy finally reached me and took my hand with pleasant earnestness. “Detective Anthony Fucci. I’ve put away more murderers than I can count and I _never_ got to meet the mayor,” he leaned in. “Tell me your secret.”

I gave a smile to my partner. “Lizzie’s my secret.”

Fucci nodded as if this made sense. “Yeah, well, good luck with her. That’s about as social as she gets since her partner died. Too bad you missed the fun. She used to be the queen of pranks. Now she’s the office hermit.” He came in even closer, looming over me with just a touch of menace. “But if you cross her in any way, I will squash you like a bug.”

I swallowed hard but kept on smiling even though I was beginning to wonder what I had gotten myself into for the sake of a new book.

 

Jasmine moved smoothly around the office and settled near her friend, her dark eyes taking in Lizzie’s determined typing. “Hey, you okay? Or you just putting on that tough-guy thing?”

Lizzie gave her a look of confusion. “Putting on? I _am_ a tough guy.”

Jasmine enjoyed her humour most of the time but just then she really wanted to be sure Lizzie was fine. She needed the truth. “Come on, it’s me.”

“My friend or my lieutenant?”

“Friend,” Jasmine said firmly. “You got shot.”

Lizzie shrugged off the concern, though she did appreciate it. Honestly, the bullet wound was barely an ache that become noticeable only after a day of desk work. “I’m fine, Jazz, really. How are _you_?”

Jasmine, sighed, relieved someone she trusted cared to ask. “Lieutenant less than a month and my first hire is made by the politician I respect the least.” Her eyes fixed on Dylan with his impeccable dress sense and shining intelligence, struggling to cope with both the coffee machine and office interaction. What had she gotten herself into?

Lizzie felt obliged to try and defend her new partner. “Once you get past… how he is, you’ll really like him,” she said. She wondered if it sounded as lame to her boss as it did to her. She got up and went for the printer.

Jasmine followed on her heels. “I dated a guy who once told me the same thing. You’ve rejected every guy you’ve ever been partnered with. Are you sure you’re okay with him?”

“Uh, no, being a partner-commitment-phobe,” she smiled, “but I think I’ll be okay.”

“You think?” Jasmine sighed again, not so much unhappy with having Dylan on the team – she didn’t know him well enough yet – but more with the pressure from the mayor making her employ him. It made her suspicious. “Oh, I’m feeling _so_ good about this hire… If this is a distraction, if this is about him, his book, his P.R. then he’s off the squad.”

Lizzie gave her an exaggerated gasp of admiration. “Oooh, I _love_ bad-ass Jasmine!” And that was no exaggeration – she was glad they had managed to stay friends despite the big promotion. She would hate to lose that close friendship over something as mutable as a job in the NYPD.

 

*

 

After the call I raced over to Rafter’s Bar as quickly as the Triumph would take me. I sprinted in through the front doors, more out of breath than I should have been. It wasn’t the exertion it was the dread that made my heart race and my lungs catch. Andy had said he was fine but there had been an accident – and that was the last thing I heard before I jumped on my bike.

In the pale light filtering in through the bar’s windows I saw Andy lying on the floor at the end of the main room, surrounded by boxes and crates of perishables and the odd keg or two of boutique ale. I was panicking as soon as I came in the door, my brogues allowing me to slide dramatically to his side.

“Oh, I got here as quickly as I could! Are you okay?” I wanted to hug him but instead I ran a hand across his shoulders and neck, fussing over him, simultaneously pulling him closer and feeling for blood and broken bones.

Andy, as always, was the voice of my reason. “Slow it down, alright? I’m fine, I’m fine…”

I was still upset. “Slow it down? You’re lying on the floor. What happened?”

“The refrigerator walk-in broke so I had to move all the cold food out before it went bad and the shelf collapsed and a keg of beer fell on my foot,” he said in one big catalogue of misery. “Tried to walk it off and this is how far I got.”

“Is anything broken?’

 He sighed in disgust. “Just the shelf… my pride… and the bar’s budget if I have to buy a new walk-in.”

I wanted to support him in every way, so I put his arm over my shoulder and looped mine around his waist. “Come on, I’ll help you up. One, two, threeee…”

I got him to his feet despite the muttered curses and moans. I distracted him as we limped to the bar. “Why are _you_ fixing the walk-in?”

“I’m pretty handy,” my lame man said. “It’s cheaper and easier than paying someone.”

“Oh yes, I can see that.” I flopped him onto a bar stool and dragged another closer for his foot. Rest, ice and elevation – I knew the drill. I went for the ice behind the bar. “What about your staff?”

“Well, Sophie booked a job, Kevin quit, Matt’s away, Lyndsey, Ed and Candy closed, which leaves - me.”

“You closed up tonight, too. In the past two weeks you’ve been working twenty-hour days.” I heard the concern in my voice and hoped he didn’t thinking I was nagging him. I just worried about him sometimes and the amount of work he took on. I gave him the ice in a towel and he applied it to his foot.

“My bar,” he said, “if I want to stay in business, I don’t have a choice.”

“Look, I know I’m a silent partner – who talks a lot,” I said, “but I can help out more, too.” I wanted him to know for sure that I was on board with Team Dandy, Dylan and Andy, all the way. I was there to help him with his dream because it was _our_ dream.

Then suddenly he said it. “We’re being evicted.”

I was stunned, certain I must have misunderstood. “What? Why? Can they _do_ that?”

Andy sighed with frustration. How long had he been bottling this up? “The lease provides that if the landlord wants to use the space for himself he can kick us out with ninety days’ notice. Well, we just got notice.” He frowned, moving the ice over his injury and not looking up at me out of, what? Shame? Surely not. He had nothing to be ashamed of or sorry for. “I’ve set up a meeting,” he continued, finally glancing up, “but… uh oh,” he saw the spark in my eyes. “I can feel a speech coming on…”

“Are you ready for the speech?” I said, bouncing on my toes and feeling a fire in my heart.

“I’m more than ready for the speech. I’m _eager_ for the speech.” Holding back a sigh, he beckoned with his fingers. “Gimme the speech.”

I had my best didactic, outraged tone set to go. “This place is your dream, and you _always_ sell yourself short. Don’t undervalue what you’ve achieved here. Don’t give up! Fight back! Hard!”

I was surprisingly breathless at the end of this small tirade. I smoothed my hair and awaited his response.

“Is that the speech?” Andy asked with one of his smiles that always managed to defuse my sudden moods.

“Yeah,” I smiled back, a little embarrassed by the abrupt outburst, “That was the speech.”

“That was a good speech,” he grinned, and I understood he was grateful for my words and, more importantly, for the sentiment behind it which I was hopeless at hiding.

“Thank you very much,” I said.

 

*

 

Her standard leave-for-work routine was reaching its conclusion. Lizzie plucked a banana from her fruit bowl, picked up her bag, scooped up the car keys and headed towards the front door. She paused briefly by her true love on the sofa, giving the ancient beagle a loving scruff of his head.

“Don't overdo it today, Gary” she slipped his favourite chew toy closer to reduce his exertion. “Pace yourself.”

She flung the door open and was suddenly greeted by a familiar face.

“Surprise!” The young blonde woman before her was beaming and excited… and carrying bags.

“Whoa!” The unexpected visitor startled Lizzie - had her sister been hiding behind the door, waiting for it to open and yell ‘boo’?

“Bad time?” the woman asked.

Lizzie recovered her composure and smiled. “No. No, it's never a bad time to see my little sister. Um… ” The carry strap of a piece of luggage was pushed into her hand as Katie flitted past and into the house. That’s when Lizzie notice more luggage on the doorstep.

Katie was busy being effervescent, running over to give Gary a cuddle. “Hi! Hi!”

Lizzie brought in the luggage and piled it beside the sofa, the early surprise now a wariness hidden behind a façade of joy. “You look amazing, as usual. What, is everything okay?”

“Everything's great,” she gave Gary a kiss, then glanced back at her Lizzie. “Why?”

“Well, I just I, uh, I haven't seen you since Christmas, and you live in Boulder, and here you are in my house.”

Katie was still smiling but answering her sister seemed a bore. “I have a job… thing,” she said breezily.

“You got a job?” Lizzie tried to _not_ sound astonished. “It’s a… job… interview?”

“No, it’s a job fair.”

That sounded more like her sister, but Lizzie looked for the bright side. “Good. Anything job related is great. You’re not working at the abuse hotline anymore?”

Katie whooshed out a breath, leaning back in the sofa as if all her energy was gone from answering tiresome questions. “No, I quit. You know, it just bummed me out.”

“Okay. So you're here looking for a job. That's good. Great. Really great news.” Lizzie hoped if she said it enough it would be true. Again, she gathered up her things and headed to the door. Katie finally noticed her sister was preparing to leave.

“Oh, are you taking off?”

“There's a murder I need to get to,” Lizzie said, knowing that probably sounded weird to a non-cop.

Katie shrugged. “It's cool. I'll just chill with Gary.” She leaped to her feet and started up the stairs. “I know where everything is.”

“Okay. Let me know if you need anything.”

Katie’s voice drifted down, “Okay.”

Once she was out of sight, Lizzie raced over to her meagre liquor table and stowed all her bottles of alcohol in her bag, taking them with her to hide in the car.

 

*

 

Lizzie and I walked down the broad garden path set on the side of the hill. It was a beautiful day, the trees were gorgeous and just starting to drop their yellowing leaves on the darkened earth like golden snowflakes. The scent of flowers and foliage filled the air. It would have been a lovely stroll through the park if the ultimate goal of our walk was _not_ to take us to what we had been told was a ‘grisly’ murder scene. I wondered if there was truly any other sort.

I had my hands deep in my pockets, trying unsuccessfully to keep the grin from my face as I listened to my partner’s latest woes.

“She just turned up?” I said.

Lizzie spread her hands. “That’s Katie’s way,” she explained, and I had a feeling this was a quote she often used regarding her sister.

I ventured a psychological slant. “Youngest children are often entitled.”

“Hope you didn’t have to take a course to figure that out,” she said, unimpressed. “She wants to have dinner tonight. She just expects me to drop everything. I have plans.”

I was surprised. “Do you really?”

“No,” she admitted sheepishly, “But I could have! I do have a life here.”

“Do you really?”

“No, but I could have!” She gave a huge sigh. “It’s not that I don’t want to see her…”

I got it. “It’s just that she assumes if she asks you will drop everything.”

“Yeah,” she agreed.

“Yeah.”

We walked on in silence for nearly ten seconds, then Lizzie had a bright idea.

“Hey, since, uh, Andy’s working so much, you should come with me and Harris and the guys to watch the MMA match at the Garden Tuesday night.”

Was she serious? Had she really looked at me? Did I throw off that lust-for-blood vibe? But then I saw her smiling and realised she was perhaps only half-serious. I grinned. “Oh, I _love_ a cage fight…”

We both laughed, and it was nice to hear her happy. And myself. You can’t let life’s problems get you down – and that’s not my psychological insight, that’s something gleaned from a fortune cookie. Though it might have been a half-serious suggestion,Lizzie deserved a serious answer.

“No,” I said, “The bar is really understaffed so I’m trying to help every night I can.” I knew she would understand the pressure of family commitments.

 

We rounded a corner and saw the flicker of yellow police tape through the trees and the large frame of Zack Clark in rubber gloves and his brand new suit, approaching us up the slope. He might be in the big league now he was out of uniform but his enthusiasm for the job and deference to Lizzie had not diminished.

“Hey, Doc,” he gave a small wave. “Good morning, Detective.”

“Uh, not so far,” she grumped, but her eyes were already focusing on the busy crime scene on the stairs below. “What have we got?”

He gestured at a young couple standing close together on the far side of the path, shock still in their eyes as they spoke with a uniformed officer. “Those two lovebirds right here were on their way to a romantic encounter and literally tripped over the remains.”

“I’m guessing that killed the mood,” I said. Their haunted expressions confirmed it.

Zack continued. “Our vic’s a John Doe. Unis searched the area for a weapon. Nothing so far. You need anything, let me know.”

It wasn’t much to start with. “Okay,” I said.

Lizzie smiled at the young man she still thought of as her protégé. “Thanks.”

“I’m keeping the lookie-loos away,” he gestured at the path and the lack of rubber-neckers in that neck of the woods. I guess he was doing a good job.

 

We descended the stairs, the sight of the young man lying stretched out across the path before us both macabre and peaceful in those surroundings. If not for the horrific wound across the throat and the blood, he was in an almost restful pose with a calm face. He was naked from the waist up, his feet bare. The crime team were finishing up and we were relatively alone with the victim.

Lizzie was already in business mode, her camera phone out taking pictures as she studied the body impassively. It was how she had to do it, how she had to get through such gruesome work. Victims and perps were her job, not people, not when you were at a scene like that. I understood that was the coping mechanism police had to prevent them from being too damaged by their work. But for me? It was much harder.

 “He’s just a kid,” Lizzie said softly. “Can’t be older than eighteen or nineteen.”

That made it all the more awful.

I sank down on the stair and gazed at the boy before me. At his round, peaceful face, his tousled sandy hair, his pale skin… at the gaping crimson wound across the throat just below the Adam’s apple, so deep it must have gone close to the spine. I swallowed hard, thinking of the waste of all that potential. I noticed something about the clothing he still wore and my heart tightened.

“Aww… the hem on his pants is hand-stitched. Probably done by his mother. Makes it sadder, somehow.”

Lizzie took several close ups of his face. “We’ll run these through facial recognition. Rigor’s not far along. He’s been dead six hours, max.” She crouched, looking closer at his neck. “Single slice made with a straight-edge blade, possibly a hunting knife. No hesitation marks.” She noted the little dreamcatcher-like key ring hanging from a belt loop. “Key ring, no keys.”

“Maybe they were stolen,” I ventured. “Or maybe it’s just a good-luck amulet. Guess it didn’t do much good.” That poor boy’s serene expression kept dragging my eyes up. No one deserved to die like this, to be left like this. Lizzie could hide behind her methodical police procedures but I could not. I couldn’t turn off my emotions like that, cancel out my empathy – in fact, these days I embraced it as part of my newer life.

I was incensed by the callousness of such a terrible act. “Do you understand the level of aggression it takes to make that cut with one stroke?” I said, angry and disgusted. “And to throw away the body – not even _try_ to hide it, just to get rid of it like it’s… garbage, demonstrates a flagrant disregard for societal norms and a chilling lack of empathy!”

Lizzie nodded in agreement. “Whoever did this is a savage.”

I shook my head. She was close to getting it but not quite. “ _Savage_ means merely uncivilized. This is the work of a sociopath, a far more dangerous creature.”

 

*

 

The magnificent processing power of the NYPD soon came up with our John Doe’s details.

“Caleb Troyer, 19,” I recited the data I had read as I followed Lizzie down the stairs of the precinct to the car. I handed her a photo of the victim as I scrolled through a quick search on my phone. “Dixon’s Corners, New York… How far upstate is that?”

“Two hours,” Lizzie said, “Uh, local sheriff said the family belongs to a strict religious community.”

Hence my phone Googling. “Yeah, I have it here. _‘The church espouses an ascetic life, eschewing modern technology, including phones and computers’._ ” I huffed at the pretension. “ _Espouses_ and _eschewing_ in one sentence is just showing off.”

“So, they’re like Amish?”

“Kind of but not. _‘Formal education ceases at thirteen.’_ ”

Lizzie unlocked the car. “Wow. Some religions reject Satan. They reject high school.”

And like that we were off on the hunt.

 

*

 

We drove from the hustle and bustle into the lush countryside, the trees turning towards shades of gold and hints of red. For two hours Lizzie and I listened to a retro music station and chatted idly about Katie and Andy – nothing too deep or serious. It was nice to tune out of the case for a little while, enjoy the journey and each other’s company. All too soon we neared our goal and we began to go through what we knew and what we needed to find out from Caleb’s home and family.

After pulling up at the family farm we were met by his mother, Mrs Troyer, dressed in a simple, hand-sewn grey dress that covered her from neck to toe. Others in their community lingered nearby but, as we approached, they slipped away from the sight of us strangers.

Mrs Troyer greeted us politely enough but with restraint, the tears in her eyes had dried but her eyes were still red. I had the feeling she was keeping a tight grip on her grief because it was not something those outside her church were permitted to witness. I was thankful the local sheriff had already come out and informed them of their son’s death - some cop duties I did not want to experience.

Mrs Troyer led us around the side of the farmhouse. “I just spoke to him Saturday on the pay phone at the post office.”

Lizzie followed close behind her, making notes in a pad. “Why did Caleb go to New York?”

“He went with another boy from the church, Seth Weber, about six months ago, but I just spoke to his parents and they said that Seth told them that he and Caleb hadn’t been living together for some time.”

I listened to her but I was also watching those elusive church members, keeping away from us as if we were carriers of some sort of virus. All except for one older man with an Abe Lincoln-style beard who was fixing a wheelbarrow out in the morning sunshine, dressed in simple shirt, trousers and braces. At least they did not eschew buttons. He looked up as we neared and there was restraint in his eyes, too, but it looked more like he was holding back anger rather than grief. Anger at whom or what, I don’t know, but I could guess who he was.

Lizzie continued her questions. “What did Caleb do in the city?”

“Construction,” Mrs Troyer sighed. “He’d send us a hundred dollars every week.”

The man came closer. “Alice? You people from the government?”

“New York City Police, sir,” Lizzie said. “We’re trying to find out what happened to your son.”

I spoke to the mother, who seemed more open to us. “Do you know who Caleb spent time with in New York?”

She sniffed back a tear. “We don’t know much about his life in the city.”

“Boy always kept secrets,” his father said curtly.

“Well,” I smiled, “A lot of teenagers do.”

It wasn’t what Mr Troyer wanted to hear. “We got things to do,” he said.

Lizzie closed her notebook. “Do you mind if we take a look at Caleb’s room?”

Mrs Troyer was startled and exchanged glances with her husband. Mr Troyer’s lips drew tight but he gave a small nod to her – and to us.

 

Lizzie and I walked in to Caleb’s whitewashed room, simply furnished in sturdy, plain wooden items with a crucifix in pride of place on one wall. The bed looked anything but comfortable but it did have a colourful bedspread – the only real colour in the room. It was truly like stepping back in time, to a time of boredom and beating yourself with birch branches for jollies.

“No posters,” Lizzie gazed around. “No electronics.”

I felt a chill down my spine. “If I was a teenager, I might want to get out of here, too. Nice quilt, though. Hand stitched.” At least there was no mystery as to who hemmed Caleb’s trousers with such love and care. I made my way to the window and saw Mr and Mrs Troyer outside, talking together, a distance between them both physically and emotionally. It was tragic to observe. “They just lost their son,” I said softly, “yet no warmth between them.”

I opened his blanket trunk with a sigh. “Must have taken a lot of courage for Caleb to defy such a domineering father and move to New York.”

Now it was Lizzie’s turn to study the parents outside through the window. It was Mrs Troyer, wiping her eyes, who caught her attention. “I bet the mother was Caleb’s ally.”

“Look.” I pulled out a small wooden box from the trunk. It was decorated with beautiful blue feathers.

“Oh, those are the same feathers that were on his key ring.”

I opened the box expecting a treasure of some sort, or at least a treasured memento. We were both surprised by the contents - popsicle sticks, lots of them, some painted black and some painted white.

Lizzie peered closer, frowning. “What are those? Popsicle sticks?”

“He kept them. In a lock box. They must have meant something to him.” For the life of me I could not think what.

Just then the bedroom door opened and Mrs Troyer came in, looking even smaller and more drawn than before. “Mrs Troyer,” Lizzie spoke gently, gesturing to the box. “Do you know what these are?”

The puzzlement on the woman’s face was genuine. “I’ve never seen them before.”

Lizzie gave a hmmm of disappointment. Like me, I think we had hoped that Caleb’s mother knew her son’s secrets, that she knew things that she was not game to say in front of her husband which could hold a clue to her son’s death, and somehow those sticks were part of it.

“That photograph of Caleb,” she said quietly, “Do you think it might be possible that I could keep it?”

“Yes, of course. Here,” Lizzie handed our ID photo straight to her.

Now the tears trickled down Mrs Troyer’s face as she fought back a sob, fought back her grief in front of us strangers and failed. I wanted to hold her, hold this sad mother in my arms, and try and make things better for her but there was nothing I could do that she would appreciate. Except for finding her son’s killer. It was a cold comfort but it was what I could do and it was what I promised myself I would do, for her.

 

Lizzie and I walked back to the car alone, the lock box with the feathers under her arm.

“Caleb would have had a rough go in my family,” she admitted. “We were always in each other’s business.

I was sifting through the information in my head, trying to make sense of it all. “He definitely had a private life,” I said. “I don’t think he went to New York to find work. I think the move was more personal.”

 

*

 

It was an old building in an old area of New York, veering between art deco and 1960’s schoolhouse architecture. Not the worst end of the scale as far as apartments go. More like the sort of soon-to-be trendy dive that would be taken over by bohemian students and turned into a pseudo-commune. Perhaps I was reading a bit too much of my youth into it.

Caleb’s room was a bed-sit: one big room, beige with high ceiling and basic amenities. Curiously, it lacked… pretty much everything that would make a house a home, that would give it some hint of life.

 Lizzie scanned the walls, the books and the bedside table. “Man, there’s nothing personal. Just like his room at home.”

I stood with my hands in my pockets, observing and contemplating – pretty much my default setting. “If eighty-five percent of the people born into the community stay within the church their entire lives, I wonder what happens to the other fifteen percent?”

“You think it could be someone from the church?”

I shrugged. “Well, the church defines its own rules, and Caleb’s father clearly disapproved of his decisions…” A dab of colour in the drab room caught my eye – a splash of red on the edge of the kitchen drawer. “Oooh, blood.”

“Get a photo. We need CSU here,” she said, still rummaging.

I whipped out my phone and took a snap, continuing my patrol of the room. The window was open six inches or so, allowing access to the window box which I doubt had seen vegetation since - forever. It did, however, contain two empty beer bottles.

“Well, well, well. Looks like Caleb was having a party. One with lipstick, one without.”

Lizzie reached down beside the bed. “One joint, with lipstick,” she held it up in her gloved fingers.

“Hmmm.” It seemed the longer we looked and the deeper, the more little secrets were coming to light about our friend Caleb. I pulled back the curtain that hung in front of the closet – and was shoved aside as a figure rushed past and out the front door.

Lizzie reacted like a tiger. “Hey! Stop!” She chased him out and pounced on him in the corridor, bringing the guy at least a foot taller down in a heavy whuff of air on to his guts. I pity the man who underestimates my partner in a fight.

She had him in an armlock and was patting him down before he could even recover from the tackle. “Hiding in the closet,” she shook her head, catching her breath. “Seriously?”

 

Lizzie brought the winded young man up to his feet. He ceased struggling once he realised he was good and caught. Like Caleb, he was just a boy although he had a more worldly way about him. She had him pushed face against the wall as she conducted a thorough search of his clothing.

“There’s nothing going on, Officer,” he said into the ratty wallpaper.

I found that hard to believe. Innocent people don’t run. They don’t hide. “Then why were you standing in a closet?”

Lizzie produced a tiny bag of marijuana from his pocket, holding it for us all to see.

He sighed. “That’s why.”

Really? All that fuss for that? “Who are you?” I asked.

Lizzie had uncovered his I.D. and released her hold so she could compare him with his photo. “Seth Weber,” she confirmed. “You’re who Caleb moved down here with?”

“I live with my girlfriend now.”

My turn. “What would the church think about the weed? About you breaking into Caleb’s room?”

Seth became more animated. “I didn’t break in! The door was unlocked. And I didn’t do this. I got here right before you. I came to get the money…” he saw us react and quickly added, “Caleb’s loaning me ninety-five dollars for rent. He keeps his money in the sock drawer. We don’t trust banks where we’re from.” He gestured vaguely at the room. “The money’s gone.”

His manner seemed too natural to me to be lies, but I wanted to see how he would react to the big news. “Caleb’s dead, Seth. He was killed.”

Seth’s mouth dropped, his expression shocked and horrified and disbelieving all in one. He wasn’t lying, there was no deceit in his face. He wasn’t our man. “Dead?” he gasped. “What? How?”

Lizzie ignored his questions for her own. “When was the last time you saw him?”

“Friday, when I asked to borrow…” suddenly it hit him. “You think _I_ did it?”

“Maybe he didn’t lend you the money. You and Caleb fought…” she explored the possibilities but I could see she had come to the same conclusion as me. Not our guy.

“No way!”

I prodded. “Maybe he was gonna tell your parents about you smoking weed, about you living in sin with your girl…”

“Caleb wouldn’t do that! He was loyal. Besides, he was the one who had secrets.”

This made my ears prick up. “What kind of secrets?”

Seth shook his head. “I don't know, but he… he used to disappear for hours and never tell anyone where he was going. Even back home, there was times he'd tell his folks he was at work and I knew that wasn't true.”

Lizzie needed more. “Who were Caleb’s friends here? Did he have a girlfriend?”

“I don’t know…” he sighed. “I told him we were having a party. He said the girl he was seeing had… a curfew and the guard wouldn’t let her in after ten p.m.”

This struck me as odd. Did I hear him right? “Wait… the _guard_?”

Seth shrugged. “I told you. The dude had secrets.”

Lizzie and I exchanged glances. “Does this girl have a name? she asked.

Seth nodded. “Nicki. Said he met her in the park.”

 

*

 

We walked through the corridor of the 11th Precinct like we owned it. Actually, I seem to do that in most places.

Lizzie gave me a look. She must have seen I was preoccupied. “How’s Andy?”

I had mentioned his accident and our predicament in passing but I hadn’t fished for sympathy – and she hadn’t given it. She had responded with empathy and given me an ear to talk to which I was grateful for. I hoped I was doing the same for her because I guessed that’s what partners did. It’s what Andy and I tried to do, but that’s a different sort of partnership.

“Oh, he’s completely stressed and fiercely independent,” I smiled, thinking about him. “We’re both working towards him understanding that sharing his burden is both productive _and_ healthy.”

Lizzie chuckled. “Are you sure I can’t trade him for my sister?”

I nearly said ‘be careful what you wish for’ but, really, although Andy could be frustratingly stubborn at times I wouldn’t want him any other way.

 

We sat at our desks, separated by our little table-tennis net glass divider. Her desk was neat piles of mess. Mine was a little too OCD to be conventional, with a few of my favourite inspiring figurines guarding my keyboard.

“So, what do we know?” I asked in order to start our analysis of the facts.

Lizzie checked her notes. “Seth’s alibi holds. He was at his girlfriend’s cousin’s place in Jersey when Caleb was killed.”

Unhelpful but expected. “Uh-huh,” I managed.

“Caleb’s dad has no record but, as the church polices itself, that doesn’t mean anything. They’re not being very co-operative. Blood on the drawer was Caleb’s, as was the DNA on one beer bottle. DNA on the other bottle and the joint belonged to – ”

“Unknown female, presumably Nicki, who lives somewhere with a guard…” I considered this for a moment. “College dorms don’t have a 10 p.m. curfew.”

Lizzie was thinking about it, too. “Rehab facility, halfway house, shelter?” She sighed at the thought of the mountain of legwork looming towards us. “We’re gonna be knocking on a lot of doors.”

I pulled out Caleb’s lock box and produced the two sets of popsicle sticks, the black and the white. I knew I had Lizzie’s attention, especially as I spread out the black ones and quickly counted them.

“What are you doing?” she asked, intrigued.

“One second…” Once I had a total, I also had an exciting idea. “Thirty-two black! How much do you bet there are fifty-six white?”

She wasn’t following. “Okay, Rain Man, why fifty-six?”

It was obvious now. It all made sense to me. “Because there are eighty-eight keys on a piano!”

“Piano?”

“Well, a practice keyboard. I had one when I was a kid. I think Caleb kept these hidden because he was ashamed. His church considers music a gateway to sin. And the feathers,” I tapped on the lid, “are from an eastern blue jay. A songbird!”

Now Lizzie got it. “Keeping with the musical theme.”

I agreed, fussing around the placement of the ‘keys’ on my desk.

“Okay, so where does a kid like Caleb learn to play the piano?”

“In every small town, there’s at least one piano teacher.”

Lizzie nodded and sat back at her desk, apparently satisfied with my detective work and following it up with some Googling of her own to find said teacher.

As I shuffled the popsicle sticks back in their box I decided to cheer her up. “Hey, how was lunch with sis?”

This was apparently _not_ the way to achieve that goal. Lizzie snorted. “She made other plans.”

I understood. “Oh. Katie’s way.”

She agreed then looked over my shoulder, her eyes wide in, what – horror? Shock? Mortification?

“Hey!” A happy, girlish voice said from behind.

“Speak of the devil,” Lizzie said to me, then leapt up to head off her sister before she came too far in the office and into her working life. “What are you doing here?”

Katie pouted and I got the impression that was a common expression for her. Her hair was straight and strawberry blonde in a simple Paltrow-esque style that she’d probably had since she was three. And why not? It worked for her. She was a young girl in appearance, manner and in mind - my quick summary.

“Ooooh,” she huffed. “I locked myself out. Great…”

Lizzie bustled about for her bag under the desk, muttering, “Keys, keys, keys, keys, keys…”

While I was studying Katie she suddenly noticed me and there was a gasp of recognition. Her eyes opened even wider.

“Oh my God,” she squealed, “You’re the People Magazine guy! You’re Lizzie’s partner, Dylan Reinhart!”

I can’t say I don’t appreciate the adoration of a fan. I smiled as modestly as one could in such a situation.

Lizzie interrupted my warm glow. “ _Doctor_ Dylan Reinhart,” she corrected.

I waved this aside as irrelevant, beaming at Katie. “Oh, please, please… Dylan… I can see the family resemblance.”

Just then the rest of the boys turned up to take my limelight.

Harris spotted her as he came into the room. “Can it be? Katie? I thought it was you.”

“Sergeant Harris,” she hugged him.

He winced. “Oh, come on. Don’t call me that.”

She grinned. “Come on, you’re fancy now. Own it.”

Fucci looked her over and laughed. “So this is Little Lizzie?”

She gestured at Lizzie and corrected him. “Actually, that’s Big Katie.”

They chuckled and he held out a hand. “Hey, it’s Anthony Fucci. Nice to finally meet you.

“Great,” she shook his hand vigorously.

Lizzie had had enough of this interruption in her work life. She took her sister casually – but firmly – and led her away from her admirers. “Excuse us, guys. Come on.”

Katie waved over her shoulder. “Bye!”

Fucci wiggled his fingers. “Bye!”

 

*

 

Mrs. Porter of Dixon’s Corners was a stereo-typical small-town piano teacher; greying, plumpish, engaging, bright and with a plainly evident love of music. The sort of teacher I wanted to have when I was growing up. She made me sweet coffee and brought out a plate of home-made cookies – how perfect – and then she opened up her laptop to show me her treasure.

The video showed a bare audition room with a central grand piano, and at the keyboard sat the young man I now knew as Caleb. He played a number of small classical pieces, each with a confidence and lightness that belied his youth. I’m no slouch with the piano myself and having perfect pitch can be a blessing or a curse, but in this case it was a positive because I could appreciate the skill of the boy who was pouring his soul into his music. How terribly sad that was now all lost.

When I had broken the news of his death to Mrs. Porter she had cried. Now she was smiling, so proud of her student and reliving his glory. “Believe it or not,” she said, “he never touched a piano until he was fifteen. Like he was born to do it.”

I was reluctant to interrupt her reverie but I was there to do a job. “What was Caleb like?”

“Caleb was such a dear boy, and so talented. He was a very quiet boy. Always seemed sad. After his third lesson, he could play Bach’s Concerto in D Minor by ear.”

“Mm-hmm.” That was impressive. “So, Mrs. Porter, you were saying Caleb worked for your husband?”

She poured some more coffee. “At his construction firm. Caleb came by the house a few years ago when I was with a student, and he was fascinated. And after she left, I suggested he touch a few keys. Well, he was shy at first but he sat down and started to play.” Her eyes closed and a she smiled, lost in her memories. “It was beautiful, as if he’d been playing his whole life. He was so happy at the piano.” When her eyes opened there was a sadness in them as she finally began coming to terms with her loss. “He was a natural.”

“So, you started giving him lessons?”

She looked shocked. “I never charged him. He was a true prodigy. He had such a gift.”

“Was Caleb conflicted about his playing?”

A frown creased her brow. “Oh, yes. The church, his father. He hated keeping the secret. He’d be at our house for hours playing… but he had such a gift.”

“So, he went to New York to study piano?”

“And stayed to apply to Juilliard.” She touched the screen of her laptop. “Julliard tapes all the auditions. Caleb sent me the link.”

In the video, Caleb finished his concerto and stood politely, even giving a small bow to the people on the other end of the camera. “I sure appreciate you letting me play for you today,” he said.

A male voice spoke appreciatively. “Mr. Troyer, you’re very talented.”

A woman whispered, “He _is_ very talented.”

On the screen, Caleb walked towards the edge of the room and into the arms of a young blonde woman. Though his back concealed her, a mirrored door to their left showed her reflection. I jumped and stabbed at the keyboard to halt the image, then enhanced the square around her. “Wait! Do you know who that is?”

Mrs. Porter gave a nod. “Caleb said her name was Nicki.”

 

*

 

Lizzie printed out the girl’s photo from the video, enhanced even further. Armed with this we began the laborious task of knocking on all those doors we had discussed in pursuit of the elusive ‘Nicki’. We had worked our way down our list by about a third and I was feeling the urge to go back to either teaching, staring at my writer’s block computer screen, or helping Andy move more crates of leeks around the bar – anything rather than knock on yet another door and come away with no helpful intelligence. It was disheartening. This part of police work – the plodding, methodical part - was very much not me. I have a preference for more instant gratification when it comes to solving puzzles, and that’s what this was. However, Lizzie took to the task like a trooper and showed no flagging in her determination, regardless of set-backs, to find our target.

And then we stumbled into a teens’ shelter out in the west where the manager not only recognised our Nicki but had useful information about her. The manager had a world-weary air to her as if she had pretty much seen it all - and I had little doubt that was the case - but she ran a clean, bright establishment in an old hall that felt more like a youth hostel. The place held an air of hope which was likely due to the manager’s leadership. I imagine for a homeless teenager, the hope would be more welcome than bed and breakfast.

We walked the main common room of Fullerton House with the manager as she did her rounds, looking over the huddles of teens drinking coffee, talking, going through newspapers and watching an old television. Getting their lives back in order. Sorting themselves out.

“Nicki Jones,” the manager mused, looking once more at the photo before handing it back to Lizzie. “She stayed at our shelter for six weeks. She just left a few days ago.”

Lizzie had her notebook close at hand. “Do you know where she went, why she left… anything about her family?”

The manager shrugged. “Kids come and go all the time.”

We passed a long table near a wall. Here were several old landline telephones, hardwired into the tabletop. Teens sat at this table, clunky receivers to their ears, the cords wrapped around their fingers or stretched as far as they could go as they tried to gain a degree of privacy from their fellows. It had been years since I had seen anything like that. It made me laugh.

“I’ve never seen a teenager on a landline before.” I wondered if they had to complete a class in using one. Perhaps there was an app for that.

The manager nodded, seemingly pleased that I noticed her retro-innovation. “Our kids are runaways, throwaways. They don’t have cells so I let them use our phones to call home.”

“Did you ever see Nicki with Caleb?” I asked, showing her his photograph

Her lips tightened. “No. She was always with this sullen-looking mouth breather. I call them ‘Beauty and the Bro’.”

Lizzie stepped in. “Does ‘Bro’ have a name?”

“’Gene’ is all I know. He’s not one of ours,” the manager said this in a tone that made me think she was grateful for this small mercy. “The last day she was here, they were arguing about this photographer, talent agent, whatever he is. He said he could get her some modelling jobs. He stole her bag or something.” She had led us around a corner to a table and noticeboard covered in random advertisements, notices and messages. “He left some fliers.”

I picked one up and marvelled at the glossy professionalism one could manufacture with a desktop, a printer, and a modicum of tech skills. Even the most sleazy, low-rent, scamming businesses could look legit despite the grammatical errors. _You can be a star!_ according to Jim Listo, photographer of unspecified qualifications, who welcomed walk-ins. I bet he did. We thanked the manager and sped on our trail.

 

*

 

We ended up at a series of warehouse/studios and found the caretaker of the building out the front, carelessly performing a repair job on the stucco with all the gusto of a man who’d rather be cutting his toenails and watching Dr Phil. Lizzie enlisted his assistance – well, his master key – as she had a feeling we were going to need to get into our photographer’s studio to look for Nicki’s supposedly stolen bag, and he would not necessarily be willing to comply.

Arvin pulled out his ring of many keys – surely far more than there were locks in the entire neighbourhood – and thudded up the stairs before us. Fortunately we needed no element of surprise. As we ascended to the second floor a wave of vile air engulfed us. Our guide rubbed his nose and huffed along, none the wiser, and I wondered if it was my imagination. Then I saw Lizzie turning pale, her nose wrinkled in disgust. No, it wasn’t just me.

Arvin knocked on the door as he yelled. “Jimmy? It’s me, Arvin!”

I groaned, unable to keep it to myself any longer. “Are you smelling that? What is that?”

Lizzie looked grim. “Decomp,” she said, then coughed, forcing down a retch.

Arvin opened the door and a tsunami of stench rolled over us. We let him go first. It was unlikely there was going to be trouble – it smelt like the trouble had already happened some days prior. I clamped a handkerchief over my face to limited effect.

Lizzie reached into her pocket, amazed by the caretaker’s nonchalance. “You didn’t notice this smell?”

Arvin stared at us blankly. “I got allergies.”

Lucky him, I thought, as he blundered away. Lizzie produced a small stick of menthol-scented lip balm and dabbed some beneath her nostrils before passing it to me.

I put ample under my ample nose and inhaled deeply, the taint of decay well-hidden though the memory remained. “Thank you,” I said.

The studio was furnished with photographic equipment, lights, make-up mirrors, screens of retro wallpaper patterns, odd furniture pieces and props. It led seamlessly into the meagre living area which was also littered with odd furniture, along with empty bottles and pizza boxes. I noticed a wall of headshots and ‘glamour’ shots, and pretty quickly realised they were all young girls. Jimmy Listo’s penthouse palace of pubescent porn. Well, surprise, surprise.

Lizzie made it to the two sofas and halted, staring down at something between them I knew I should not want to see… but a dark part of my heart very much wanted to. There was a hairy male figure dressed only in boxer shorts and looking plump, dark and… ripe.

“Oooof,” Lizzie puffed. “Purplish discolouration, early decomposition, dried blood from his nose and mouth. He’s been dead at least forty-eight hours… which puts him out of the running for killing Caleb.” She leaned closer and I got the impression her menthol wasn’t able to cope anymore. She looked like she could taste that smell, even though she held her sleeve over her mouth. “Single, deep cut to the throat. Fixed straight-edge blade.”

I added this information to the catalogue of psychiatric knowledge in my mind. “Our killer has a signature move.”

“Two bodies in forty-eight hours,” Lizzie gave me a worried glance. “Are we dealing with a serial?”

I shook my head, feeling a cold dread in my chest though my words came out in a simmering anger. “Serials generally have a cooling-off period between their hits, usually a few weeks, and they rarely know their victims. No, this is a spree killer. Rageful, ruthless... Unlike serial killers, spree killers don’t need a cooling-off time between murders,” my eyes locked onto hers. “Which means we’re going to find another body very soon.”

 

*

 

The crime team got there ASAP and set to work preserving evidence and doing their thing. Other members of our squad arrived and did their thing, too. I took the opportunity to do _my_ thing and removed myself from the murder to cool my head, be that analytical genius that was of use to Lizzie. I received an update from the rest of the team and went inside to inform my partner, who was helping scour for clues. I was feeling more like myself when I climbed the stairs. Even the stench had become a background annoyance rather than full on disgusting. The fact that ol’ Jimmy was now in a rubber bag and the to-ing and fro-ing of people had created a clearing breeze through the warehouse had helped, too.

I sauntered in, putting on my best Fucci New Yorker accent. “Fucci and Harris are canvassing. So far, nobody knows nuthin’.”

Lizzie ignored my linguistic talent, intrigued by a small purple backpack she dragged out from under a sofa. “Could this be the bag he stole from Nicki?”

I still had my rubber gloves on so I unzipped the natty little pack and rifled through the contents. “Hmm. Yeah. Here’s her shelter I.D.” A grainy photo like a mug shot stared out from a white card. It was Nicki, alright. “Lipstick, condoms…”

Lizzie reached in and drew out a crumpled photo. It was a sunny, leafy scene and Nicki was at the back with her arms around a blonde girl in front. They seemed carefree and joyful, not a care in the world. “Nicki’s sister? Her best friend?”

Either seemed a reasonable guess. “Hmmm,” I muttered, then my attention was caught by a black sketch book. I opened it up expecting something sketchy and perhaps a bit girly, some unicorns and mermaids maybe, so I was shocked by what I found when I leafed through. “Oh. Looks like Nicki was an artist.”

Lizzie gasped. “Oh, my God.”

Delightful little manga scenes were drawn out in confident graphite strokes and large, dramatic splotches of red ink; scenes of corpses, decapitated and slashed, no less horrific for being a cartoon. One was a body, face down between two sofas, another was lying among swampy grass, face up with the mouth gaping in a final scream. The last one made me pause. “Wait, is that meant to be Caleb? There wasn’t a marsh in the park.”

Lizzie focused on the name at the bottom. “She signs her stuff ‘El Mas Loco’. In Spanish that means, ‘The craziest one’.”

“But no, it’s the male form of the word… Maybe Gene was the artist.”

“ _And_ the killer? To kill men this viciously, you’d have to have power, strength...”

She was right, to a degree, but nothing was ever so black and white when it came to my speciality - abnormal behaviour. Context was everything. “Well, spree killings are normally triggered by an emotional upheaval. Maybe Gene was controlling his compulsions… and then they exploded.”

“Why now? What makes him let go now?”

 “The trigger can often be humiliation. If Gene was in a relationship with Nicki, and then he found out she’d been with Caleb _and_ this photographer… Maybe that’s what set him over the edge. And he killed them both.”

“And made art from it?”

It had a macabre kind of sense to it now. “Whoever did this was a malignant narcissist. He didn’t want anyone else to take credit for what he’d done. He would brag about it if he knew he wasn’t going to get caught.”

There was a spark to Lizzie’s eyes. “He could brag about it anonymously on the Internet.”

Of course! Oh, Lizzie, that’s why I like working with you.

 

*

 

Lizzie made hunting out the trail on the internet seem simple but perhaps that’s because there are limits to my talents, and one of those is dealing with complex computer programs. Even my lectures tended towards the old fashioned blackboard and chalk rather than Powerpoints but there’s a couple of reasons for that. One is that students tend to listen more if they are not distracted by lights and bright colours on a screen. The other is the simplicity, the tactility, the smell of chalk dust that reminds me fondly of my years of learning and studying. In other words, I just like it.

When it was time to brief the boss, we wheeled our glass photo boards into the conference room and linked the laptop to the main screen. Lieutenant Gooden sat beside Lizzie as the links were brought up on display. I watched the brief as well as the two women, noting they way they mirrored their gestures, listened attentively as the other spoke, leaning closer. They were not just colleagues, they were good friends. I wondered vaguely if they ever let that get in the way of work… and then I focused on the brief.

Lizzie brought up a lovely montage site of gory artwork, headlined _Death, Destruction, Mayhem, Chaos_. Not a Disney affiliate.

“Finding El Mas Loco’s work wasn’t easy,” she said, “but we traced messages from him on anime sites that linked to this web site, BloodAndGore.com, where he posted his work from a laptop using proxies to hide his IP address.”

I had a feeling the Lieutenant was as up on computers as I was but she pursed her lips thoughtfully. “You think El Mas Loco is this kid, Gene?”

Lizzie pointed to me. We were tag teaming this one, showing my worth to the boss.

“Yeah.” I said. “Gene was going out with Nicki, who was also with Caleb and the photographer.”

“And we found El Mas Loco’s sketchbook in her bag. No readable fingerprints,” Lizzie said.

Jasmine nodded. “Prints are tough to find on paper.”

“Then we found these two drawings.” Lizzie clicked on two of the BloodAndGore montage pictures and there were the two sketches from the book we found in Nicki’s bag. “They seem to be our victims and were posted yesterday online using a cell phone.”

This was back in Jasmine’s field. “We track the cell, we find El Mas Loco.”

We had already started that long-winded police procedure. “Oh, we got the number,” I said, prompted by Lizzie’s glance. “D.A.’s office is getting a subpoena to I.D. who it is registered to. Hopefully… by end of day tomorrow…” I trailed off, letting Jasmine take the bait.

She took it, rising to her feet. “This guy’s killed twice in two days. We could have another victim by then. Let me see if I can speed things up.”

Off she raced to pull some strings, which was fair enough as we had just pulled hers.

 

*

 

My personal preference to distance myself from using computer presentations took a back seat as Andy brought out his laptop for his potential investor and opened up a professional slide show illustrated with some nifty graphs he had worked on all night. I may be a little biased but I like to think creating and delivering briefs were some of Andy’s more underrated skills when he was a lawyer. Even now, watching him at his engaging yet businesslike best, a combination of seasoned expert and best buddy, made me consider he should have stayed in his old trade. The legal system could do with more warm bodies like Andy swimming against the usual cold sharks of his old fraternity.

However, to see the ease on his face now when he thinks about his work at the bar rather than that tightness around the eyes he had at the end of his previous job, I know which both he and I prefer. Even on his worst day at Rafter’s Bar he never has that worn out, worn through look that worried me when we first got together. That’s why now I wanted nothing more than to see his dream bar stay a reality. Go Team Fine and Dandy!

We sat at a table at the rear of the bar with Andy beside Chris Ambrose, our landlord and would-be usurper. I sat behind Andy perched on a stool, nervous as hell but hopefully hiding it behind a smile that didn’t look like I was gritting my teeth. As a professional psychologist I should have been noting Ambrose’s crossed arms, leaning back in his chair away from the lap top, that frowning-smiling expression of a man who has made up his mind and is not open to any further entreaties because he’s getting ready to deliver his decision. I _should_ have, but I was too lost in the presentation and my silent urging as a silent partner for this silent and brooding man to just agree and then leave us alone.

Andy brought up his final slide. “As you can see, the foot traffic we generate is actually better than your projections. My proposal is to give you a percentage of the profits in lieu of rent. That way, you get to participate in our success. And, of course,” he laughed lightly, “you get all the free drinks you want.”

Ambrose chuckled politely as well and I followed suit, feeling more hysterical than amused. _Just say yes,_ I kept thinking, _then go. Leave our dream alone._

Ambrose was still smiling, his arms crossed that bit tighter as a defence mechanism. “Yeah… you see, the thing is…” he began.

My heart was racing. _Just say yes!_

“…is that this corner is gold. This place is always packed, which is why I want to put in my own restaurant, you know. Keep all the profits and the free drinks.”

I saw Andy’s face fall, resignation in his eyes as he closed the presentation. I couldn’t take it. I leapt to my feet. “Are you kidding me?” I snapped.

“No,” Ambrose gave me a look that made me think he hadn’t truly registered I was there. I gave him a reason to register me now.

Ignoring Andy’s desperate glance, I focussed on defending our dream by whipping out an impromptu speech. Though I deliver lectures for my work, apparently I can’t help delivering lectures in my homelife as well. “In the past five years there have been three different restaurants in this space. All of them have failed! It’s not the corner that’s valuable. And it’s not the drinks or the food or the theme or the fact that he works harder than everyone else that makes Rafter’s so popular. It’s Andy! It’s _his_ ability to make everyone who walks through that door feel like they belong here, like this is home.” I stalked closer, staring down this obstacle of a man who hugged himself tighter under my tirade.

“That’s _his_ gift,” I said. “If _you_ have that gift, then knock yourself out, because this is a risky business and you have a sure thing right here!” As the last words left my mouth I suddenly realised not just what I said but the aggressive manner in which I’d said it. I drew back and perched myself on my stool as meekly as I could manage, hoping our landlord was not going to hold my outburst against Andy. I was just the silent partner, after all.

Ambrose unfolded from his chair and stood, retreating a little, his expression deadpan as he gazed at each of us in turn. To Andy he spoke sombrely, “I’ll get back to you.”

Had I just let one of my sudden moods ruin everything? I regretted opening my mouth but not the sentiment behind my words. I was about to swallow my pride and apologise…

“No,” Andy said in a firm, no-nonsense manner, closing the laptop with a click. “No. This is a one-time-only offer. We think it’s more than fair. You get a piece of our hard work with none of the risk. So, you decide if it’s worth it for you. You’ve got forty-eight hours.” Suddenly he was delivering an ultimatum to this implacable Ambrose guy and I don’t know which of us was internally more surprised.

Ambrose gave a curt nod. “You’ll have my answer,” he said and left the bar.

We held our breath, frozen in place till he was out of sight, then I took the seat opposite Andy. His firm manner was gone, replaced by a fear he had done the wrong thing and ruined our chances.

He flustered adorably. “Did I overplay our hand? I slightly overplayed…”

I threaded his fingers with mine. “No, no, you were like a shark! You were scrappy and cutthroat and sexy. If he’s too dumb to take a great deal, then we will find another corner and you will work your magic there.”

We grinned nervously at each other, unsure which of us had done the right or wrong thing with Ambrose and neither of us in any way sure of the outcome. Only forty-eight hours would tell us that. What I was sure of was how much I loved my man and how he backed himself and our dream. We were fine and Dandy, and we would survive regardless of what happened with Ambrose. That we both knew.

 

*

 

Lizzie and I went back to my place that afternoon and put our latest information onto the pinboard in my study - my Board of Carnage, as Andy liked to call it. We had stopped by the local take out, Han Dynasty, and I treated her to our favourite dishes: mu shu pork, chicken with broccoli, egg noodles and spring rolls.

Lizzie ate voraciously, her stomach hardened to the pictures on the wall by years of police work. However, my appetite diminished as I pinned up more of El Mas Loco’s pieces of ‘art’, various matching crime scene photographs, autopsy reports and data sheets, the photographer’s flyer and some photographs I had downloaded which served as memory prompts to help me think – a piano keyboard was one of them, as was a labyrinth. But it was the photograph of young Caleb, looking as if he were sleeping despite the violent gouge across his throat, that really held my attention. The loss of all that potential, that creative soul, it touched a familiar nerve in me.

I heard Lizzie sucking up more noodles. I smiled at her effort to try and be quiet about it and failing. “What time is the cage fight?” I asked.

“Undercard at six o’clock, and then the main event. You should come. There are still tickets.” She sounded genuine. She wanted my company and I appreciated that.

“I’m good,” I said, then my eye caught the sad picture of Caleb once again. “Well, no, I’m not good. No…”

“Caleb,” Lizzie said, “You see yourself in him.”

Her insight caught me by surprise. I gave a nod, gazing over the Board of Carnage. “I was lucky to have a mother who understood me… and not to cross paths with a murderer.” There but for the grace of God, and so forth.

Lizzie’s cell phone buzzed a message. She read it and sprang to her feet, grabbing her coat. “I have to go.”

I was too lost in my own thoughts to ask who it was. “Enjoy,” I said as she left.

“Thanks,” she called from the door.

 

*

 

Lizzie handed cash through the car window to the taxi driver – an exorbitant amount but then it wasn’t just the for the fare, it was also for the clean up. “Sorry for the mess,” she was embarrassed and apologetic, far more than her sister who was the cause of the fuss. Katie leant on a car in front of their home, barely able to stand on her own. Lizzie recognised the reek of booze and vomit as well as the erratic mood swings of a drunk.

“Thanks for nothing!” Katie yelled as the cab pulled away. “Loser!”

Lizzie forced a smile at her neighbours standing on their stoop next door watching the fracas, wondering how she would be able to show her face to them again. “Sorry for the excitement, guys. This is my sister… She’s just visiting.”

Katie was still riled up about the cabbie, even as she slumped on Lizzie. “Listen… I know that I threw up in his cab… but he wasn’t gonna let me go until I gave him money, and that is basically kidnapping!”

Lizzie gritted her teeth and said nothing as she steered them both to the front door.

 

Once inside, Katie’s anger diminished into a tired self-pity. “I’m fine,” she sulked.

“Of course you are.”

They flopped down heavily together onto the sofa. “I’m gonna pay you back.”

“That’s okay.” Lizzie rearranged her sister’s long limbs on the sofa, settling her in amongst the cushions for the night because there was no way she could drag her upstairs to bed before she passed out.

Katie had ideas percolating in her fuddled brain. “You know what I was thinking?” she gave a dreamy grin. “I could be a cop because I like helping people. And I’m a closet excitement junkie…”

“Yeah, I think that runs in the family.” Lizzie’s cell phone buzzed with a message from Dylan: _TARU tracked the phone_. She knew what she had to do – go work on her murder case. It was easier than looking after her little sister. Besides, Katie was asleep so quickly and deeply there might as well have been little ZZZZs floating in a cloud above her head.

 

*

 

I stood on the darkened street, hands in my pockets, conducting a stake-out of our perp and feeling very cop-ish. I guess I really should have been in a car, eating greasy burgers and chain-smoking beside my grizzled, aging partner who was ‘too old for this shit’. I heard the chirrup of a keyless lock and saw Lizzie striding down the path towards me. My partner didn’t look too old at all and certainly not grizzled, but she did seem preoccupied like she needed a friend. Perhaps her fighter lost the match?

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey,” I smiled, “How was the MMA? Nice cage fight?”

She gave a blink, like she was unsure what to say. “Uh, I suppose, yeah.”

“Jasmine had the subpoena fast-tracked. Turned out the phone belonged to the photographer.”

“Gene must have stolen it from him when he killed him.”

“TARU triangulated the signal and traced it here,” I gestured to the house before us, in case she was wondering why I had asked her to meet me at this location. “The home of Dr and Mrs. Higgins. Gene’s parents. Oh, and guess what? Turns out Gene has an open warrant for possession.” If I sounded a little smug it was because the evidence was all neatly falling into place to prove our theory. It’s nice to be proven right. Movement caught our eyes and a young woman in a silvery leather jacket and jeans left the front door and descended the stairs, a woman we recognised from our photos. “Look! Nicki.”

Lizzie gave me the nod. “Get her, I’ll look for him. Go.”

I loped nonchalantly across the street to my target so as to not frighten her away - and  because I dislike running. I intercepted her on the sidewalk, trying to looking officious so she wouldn’t ask to see the badge I don’t have. “Nicki Jones?” I said. She glanced over at me and I added, “NYPD.”

Just then a young man emerged from the house and went down the sidewalk in the other direction. Lizzie performed the same casual jog and came up behind him. “Gene Higgins?” she said, pulling out her badge as he halted and spun round. “NYPD.”

And like that they were off and running, Gene ignoring her command to stop. Nicki and I stood side by side as little terrier Lizzie ran down Gene in a sprint which only ended so soon because an innocent pedestrian, a woman in a fetching poncho, was grabbed around the neck by Gene and held in a headlock.

The woman gave a yelp of fear. Lizzie’s pistol was drawn but held to the side, trying to not scare the young man into doing anything to hurt his hostage but still implying a threat. “Okay, relax,” she said to him, holding her empty palm towards him. “Don’t do anything stupid. You don’t want to do this. Let’s talk…”

Gene shoved the woman forward as a distraction and ran, but Lizzie was a nimble little minx and chased him down, tackling him like one of those footballers so that they both hit the pavement with a whoof of breath. As Lizzie was on top she was fine, but Gene was winded and worse for wear – not that I cared about him at that time. She whipped out her cuffs and locked his wrists behind his back before searching him and pulling out a knife that Crocodile Dundee would agree was a knife. It looked like it should have been hacking down sugar cane, not sitting in some guy’s waistband.

“What’s this?” she twisted the blade to catch the light. All he could do was grunt in reply.

 

Uniformed back-up arrived quickly on the scene and we brought our two persons of interest to the cars. Gene had recovered his breath – and his snarky arrogance. This was despite being taken down and manhandled by a woman half his size.

Lizzie shoved him forward. “Now, talk to me,” she said, then quickly regretted it.

“Screw you, bitch,” Gene was as cocky as you would imagine a teenage sociopath from a well-to-do family would be. “I’m not saying a word. I’ll call my parents’ lawyer. You’ll be the one having to talk.”

She sighed. Nothing of value would come from him, at least for now. Some time in lockup might work wonders. “Shut up, Gene. I hope your daddy’s lawyer is smarter than you are.” Lizzie gave him into the custody of a uniformed officer and handed over the knife. “I tossed him,” she said, so they didn’t bother searching again.

“Yes, ma’am,” the cop stared at the weapon with wide eyes.

Meanwhile, I had led my more passive prisoner back towards my partner, talking with her calmly and reasonably all the time. Somewhat cautiously she responded. Nicki had big blue eyes peeping out from under a mop of blonde hair, her eyebrows pushed together more in confusion than concern. There was a little-girl-lost quality to her… I could see why Jim Listo, wanna-be photographer to the wanna-be stars, had been interested.

She was responding to my ‘good cop’ routine, which was just as well as I wasn’t too sure how I’d do the ‘bad cop’ one.

“Do your parents know you’re in New York?” I asked gently.

Her eyebrows squinched tighter. “I’m not sure.”

“You don’t want to get them involved.” I said – I wasn’t being paid for my psychological insight for nothing. “I understand, but you have to explain yourself, Nicki.”

Those big eyes blinked back a shimmer of tears, confusion giving way to fear as she dropped her bombshell. “My name isn’t Nicki. I don’t know what it is. I can’t remember who I am or where I’m from.” Her full lips quivered. “Please help me. I can’t remember anything!”

So much for my insight. Sure didn’t see _that_ one coming.

 

*

 

Nicki was eventually sent to the secure wing of H. Roughan Medical Centre for further observation and assessment, based on both her amnesia and involvement in a crime. This put her right up my alley, so to speak, so I contacted Dr Nedra Chandler, the chief psychiatrist at the centre. We had met some time back when I had done research for a couple of my lessons, looking for the latest data regarding criminal behaviour. She was a well-regarded researcher with a good memory for historical cases and symptoms, and it was a shame she was now more concerned with the administration side of a medical centre rather than patients.

This case and my involvement in it piqued her interest though, so she happily emerged from her administration hell and agreed to deal with the mysterious Nicki herself – with my input, of course.

 

She and I came down from her first-floor office and into the garden courtyard of the centre. Several other patients and staff were occupying the round, white picnic tables set among the manicured grass, espaliered climbers and trimmed conifers – a patch of order amidst the chaos of disordered minds. At one table sat Nicki, observed by a couple of uniformed cops standing at a discreet distance.

Nicki looked up as we approached, something like hope in those big eyes as she saw me. I gave her a smile but kept a professional demeanour as I made introductions and we sat opposite.

“This is Dr. Chandler. She’s a psychiatrist. We’ll be assessing your condition.” I pulled out the photo Lizzie and I found of Nicki with her arms around the seated blonde girl, sliding it across the table. “This was in your backpack. Do you recognise her?”

Nicki picked up the photograph and studied it intently for some time before shaking her head. “No.”

Dr. Chandler leaned closer. “The farthest back you remember is six weeks ago, finding yourself in Times Square?”

Nicki agreed. “I didn’t have any money or I.D. I didn’t know where I came from.”

There was something about her vowels that rang that perfect pitch bell in me. “I…I’m hearing a slight coastal New England accent. Is it possible you’re from Boston? Or, uh, Rhode Island? Maine?”

That same shake of her head.

Dr. Chandler asked, “Did you go to the police?”

“I met Gene. He took me to the shelter and he said I’d be safe there.” There was a tremble to Nicki’s voice as she told us her few accessible memories. I had the impression they were not all pleasant. “Things were good, till I met that creepy photographer a couple of weeks ago.”

“And what happened with him?” I asked.

“He said he’d pay me to model. When I went there he tried to…” She fought back tears and I nodded for her to continue. I knew what she meant.

“I got away, but I left my bag.”

A thought occurred to me. “Hold on. Did Gene confront the photographer after he tried to…?”

“I don’t know. But he said I wouldn’t have to worry about him anymore.” She hesitated, swallowing hard. “Then I saw his drawing.”

“The one of the photographer with his throat sliced that he put on line?”

She closed her eyes at the mental image. “Yes.”

Maybe I had been a bit too insensitive with that. I moved on. “And then you met Caleb in the park?”

Briefly, her sad face and doe-eyes brightened into a smile that was something sweet and shy. “He took me to dinner, and I went back to his room. I saw him a few more times after but Gene caught us and, like, lost it. Tried to hit me. Caleb stopped him. I ran away. …” her gaze lowered, tears close once more. “Later, Gene said if I ever try to leave him again, he’ll kill me.”

Dr. Chandler spoke up. “Did he tell you Caleb was dead?”

Nicki looked at her. “I saw the drawing.”

“How did you feel,” I asked, “when you realised Caleb had been murdered?”

Those big eyes blinked harder at those tears that threatened to flow as she pulled her lips tight. “I kept thinking, it could have been me.”

 

*

 

Lizzie met up with me at the centre, eager to hear how we were progressing with Nicki. I waited till we were alone and were walking to our vehicles – away from both the patient and my colleague – before I gave a more honest appraisal.

“Dr. Chandler diagnosed Nicki with Global Dissociative Amnesia, which is when you suddenly lose all autobiographical memory before a certain point. Chandler thinks Nicki is a textbook case.” I didn’t mean to snap out those last few words, and I didn’t mean for the astute Lizzie to pick me up on it.

“You clearly don’t concur.”

“Well, GDA is beyond rare. For proper diagnosis you need an MRI or neuro-psych evaluation – which the state won’t pay for.” And that is the problem with being in ‘the system’, for Nicki and for our case. I could, of course, go along with Chandler’s diagnosis and there was every reason to do so, but also many reasons not to. Just because we’re friends doesn’t mean we agree professionally. She was more concerned with the patient – my concerns and Lizzie’s also rested with solving the murder case.

Lizzie saw where I was going because she was there, too. “I’m afraid her attorney will use this to say she’s not competent so we can’t get her as an accomplice,” she said.

“Is Gene saying she participated in the murders?”

I was surprised by the sudden laughter. “He’s not saying anything! His rich parents lawyered him up. If we can bargain to get her to testify against him…” She noted my preoccupation, my hands deep in pockets, listening to her and not. Her cop instincts told her I had something going on in my head. “Something’s bothering you. Be a big boy, use your words,” Her smile urged me on.

We had halted at my motorbike while I collected my thoughts. “Well, Chandler’s right. Nicki’s symptoms _are_ textbook. Maybe a little _too_ textbook.”

“How would you determine that?”

I picked up my helmet. It was as empty as my brain felt just then. “That’s what’s bothering me.”

 

I rode around for a little while, letting the air rush over me and watching the world go by as I balanced on those two precarious wheels, jiggering in and out of traffic and allowing my mind to free associate. Working on the problem without doing so, if you like. Eventually I made my way back to the funky 11th Precinct building and pulled into the street parking right in front for motorbikes. Sure beats trying to find a spot for a car in the city.

As I cut the engine, I saw a familiar strawberry blonde rushing towards me. I wondered how long she’d been standing there waiting, and who she had been waiting for. Katie did not look as bubbly and babyish as she had before when we met and I knew things were not right in her world.

“Hey,” she said, holding out a hand with two pieces of cardboard. “Can you give these to Lizzie for me? I’m in kind of a hurry.”

Considering she was living with Lizzie it seemed odd. So, okay, something was wrong between them - could I help? Maybe.

I saw what was now in my hand, raising an eyebrow. “Oh. MMA tickets. She went last night.”

Katie had a pained look as she fell into step beside me. “I messed that up. Big surprise. Those are sort of a thank you. Or an apology. You know how it is with sisters…”

Alas, there are limits to my knowledge. “Actually, I don’t.”

“When you have a big sister, especially one like Lizzie, it’s kind of like having an extra mom. You know, she was always looking out for me as a kid. Kept me out of trouble.”

There was a grudging gratitude in there but I had the impression the sisters never really talked about this together. Were never as close as they could be – should be. There was something unspoken between them. They needed to speak it. That was my professional opinion at an hourly rate you couldn’t afford.

“You should give her these yourself,” I said. Hopefully I implied she should also broach the difficult conversation with Lizzie they were avoiding.

Katie sighed, shaking her head and stepping back. “I don’t really need to see how I let her down again…” And like that she was rushing away. Avoiding.

 

*

 

Inside the precinct up on the Homicide Division floor, I stopped at the front counter when the cute civilian receptionist with the hoop earrings beckoned me over with those come-hither eyes and surprisingly bright lipstick against her dark skin. Ah, if only I were so inclined. She knew what I was working on and gave me the latest report that was crossing her desk about our teenage Gene Higgins and his lack of cooperation during his interviews, unless you count his lawyer saying ‘no comment’ as cooperative.

I’d just reached the bottom of the useless report and was giving it back when Lizzie came bustling through the doors, a sheaf of papers in her hands.

She flicked through the pages as she spoke. “Forensics says nothing puts Gene at either crime scene. No blood, no fingerprints, no fibres, not even a hair. He had hands on these guys. There has to be some trace of him. Am I missing something? Does this seem right to you?”

I gave a sigh, as exasperated as she was. “ _None_ of it seems right to me.”

We headed towards our office – I needed coffee, Lizzie needed somewhere to throw down the report in disgust before she lobbed it at me. She tugged at one sheet, reading it out.

“His priors are for possession. Nothing violent. All we have on him is what Nicki gave us.”

Have on him? That rang a bell in my head. From my pocket I pulled out the tickets I had on me and waved them in front of her eyes. “Oh, your, um, sister brought these… As an apology or a thank you. I couldn’t quite tell.”

Lizzie snorted and snatched the tickets. “Oh, then I guess we’re all good.”

Didn’t sound that way. Sarcasm is a wonderful thing. “She knows she upset you.”

My partner laughed dryly. “Of course. That’s Katie’s way. _She_ decides what’s real.”

She was writing notes on the report while I poured a coffee – except I halted before the first drop hit the cup. Lizzie’s words rang in my head. _She decides what’s real_. It made sense… Something awful appeared in my brain and would not let me go until I spoke it aloud.

“So does Nicki.”

Lizzie was confused. “What?”

We went to our desk while I let my train of thought race out my mouth like a runaway diesel. “All we have is what _she_ gave us. She’s creating the narrative. What if Nicki is our killer? She had no empathy for that boy…” I lowered into my chair – then jumped to my feet as it all came clear. “I think _she’s_ the malignant narcissist, not Gene.” I went to sit down but another thought made me jump up again. “I think _she’s_ a sociopath!”

Lizzie held her hands out to calm me down, to make me stop and breathe and stop acting like a meerkat. “Okay,” she said. “What’s her motive? She says the photographer tried to rape her, but why kill Caleb?”

And just like that my choo-choo went off into a shunting yard, leaving me with nothing. My theory fell down and I gestured helplessly, embarrassed. “I… don’t know…”

For some reason she found my admission amusing. “Hmmm… _That’s_ a first.”

My ego reacted with a snap. “I’m only saying that to motivate my unconscious to work faster.” I considered what I knew about behaviour, abnormal and otherwise. “Narcissists need to show off…”

She nodded thoughtfully. “Well, in that case, having to keep these two murders a secret must be driving her crazy.”

Lizzie was on the money and it prompted me. “Yes! Good. She must be dying to let us know how clever she is, to get our praise… So, let’s give it to her, then take it away. Make her angry and see how careless she gets!” I halted, pleasantly surprised at the plan that had tumbled out of me when I least expected it. “Huh!” I chuckled, “I guess I did know after all.”

 

*

 

Back at the medical centre, I met up with Nicki out in the garden courtyard under observation by cops. She seemed pleased to see me, having talked with her lawyer just prior to my visit.

“My lawyer said, since I have amnesia, they’ll wipe out the charges against me if I testify.” She leaned closer, confiding. “You know, I didn’t like that lady doctor, the way she looked at me all judgey… but I could tell we clicked.”

The smile on my face was tight, insincere. Surely she could tell? “You’ll be asked to explain why your DNA is all over both victims.”

Nicki gave me a humouring look, as if it were obvious but she would deign to help me understand. “That creepy photographer was all over me. And I slept with Caleb.”

“In the park? Where he was killed?”

“Yeah, under the stars. It was actually very sweet. Until Gene showed up.”

“You have an answer for everything,” I said, _sotto voce_ , but loud enough that she heard and blinked in confusion, as if suddenly aware I was not so gulled as she believed. I continued on, “So, Nicki, did Gene ever tell you that he killed Jim or Caleb?”

“He never did.” Was that suspicion furrowing her brow now?

“Did you see anything that might implicate him? Bloody clothes, shoes… the knife? We know the knife was cleaned with bleach. Did you, maybe, see him buy the bleach? I need you to dig deep, really think.”

“There’s, like… nothing.” She averted her gaze, that sad little-girl-lost look back on her face because that had worked on me before.

“Thing is, Nicki,” I said, “there’s no evidence that Gene was at either crime scene. And these are fingers-in-the-flesh murders. It’s very difficult not to leave something behind.” I shook my head, sucking air over my teeth. “It’s as if a ghost committed the _perfect_ crime.”

“Twice,” she couldn’t help adding. Boasting. “Guess you guys will just have to look a little harder to prove Gene did it.”

 “But, no matter how hard we look, you and I both know that we won’t find anything because Gene was never there,” I said. “The only person who was at both crime scenes… is you.”  I was unsure how I expected her to react to my unsubtle challenge.

She raised her chin, clenching her teeth but trying to maintain some semblance of amiability. “Is this the part where you ask me if I killed them?”

“I guess it is,” I said, bluntly. “Yeah.”

“Why would you even think that?”

I gave her my diagnosis. “Because you don’t understand empathy. It’s not your fault. You can mimic it, you can recognise it in others, but…” I shook my head sadly, “You never fully comprehend it.”

“That’s your proof?” she snapped.

I sighed in gentle resignation. “I have no proof.”

“Because there isn’t any.” She said, angrily

“Not yet. Everyone makes a mistake. It’s just a matter of time.”

 

*

 

Lizzie and I were back in the conference room, our portable glass Boards of Carnage wheeled in while we briefed the boss further. Pictures of the photographer guy, Jim, pre and post mortem were taped up beside similar shots of Caleb. Although both were sad it was the boy’s ghostly face as he lay on the mortuary table, the Y-shaped line of coarse stitches across his narrow chest, that kept catching my eye. I remembered my silent promise to his mother – I would find his killer – but finding the killer and proving the killer did it were two different things, I had discovered. In this case, I believed I had done the first. Now to make others believe it and find the proof for the DA.

Again, Lizzie and I tag-teamed our brief to Jasmine. I was pleased to note that the crotchety boss was listening to me with a more open stance, nodding her head and giving affirming noises, paying attention to both or us equally. My professionalism and innate charm had softened her cool heart, I thought. Either that, or she had resigned herself to having to deal with an interloper in a natty suit and was making the best of it.

She peered closely at Nicki’s photograph on the other side of the board, squinting a little as if this might make the girl’s guilt more apparent.

“So, you think the amnesia is a crock, she’s acting?” Jasmine asked, summarising our brief succinctly.

“I do,” I said.

“Why choose amnesia? It doesn’t insulate her from the murders. It only hides her past which seems clean. She’s clean. She’s not in the system.”

I had thought hard about this. “She may not have been our problem up till now, but she was _somebody’s_. You don’t just start with murder. Not a murder this well-planned, this violent, this intimate. You work up to it. She’s a sociopath, a predator, and she’s hunting men.”

Lizzie agreed. “There’s something in her past.”

If only we knew what it was, I thought, but for that we would need to know who she really was.

Jasmine sighed, crossed her arms, still staring at those deceptive doe-eyes in the picture. “Yeah, but her story rings true. It’s not neat… Like, she didn’t say that she saw Gene kill these guys or even that he told her he did.”

“She’s a narcissist,” I said. “Why would she let someone else get credit for it?”

“To exonerate herself,” Jasmine said, because she thought like a cop and like a rational person, not someone with a sociopathic disorder. That was why she needed me at the precinct.

“Oh, you should have seen her,” I smiled, remembering how Nicki had lowered her façade just enough in our interview to tease me. “She is thrilled we know she did it.”

Jasmine seemed to accept my word. “So, prove it. Get me something I can use. A witness, a videotape… Better still, a confession.” One last squint at the picture. “She really doesn’t look the type.”

“That’s the thing about people,” I said. “They always surprise you.” And that was precisely what made both my field of work and my colleagues so fascinating.

 

*

 

Lizzie and I left the briefing room, both eager to go home and leave behind what we could for the night. I undid my collar and loosened my tie as we walked, as if releasing those would somehow release the taint in the air from our case so I could go home without it lingering in my lungs. Not a chance.

But my partner seemed preoccupied with more than just the murders. I had a pretty good idea what was on her mind and what she was avoiding – the same thing Katie was avoiding, whatever that was.

“I have to say something to you,” I said, as we headed to our desk. “I’m not sure why you missed the cage fight, but I know it has something to do with Katie.”

Lizzie looked over at me then away. This was not something she was eager to share. “Yeah,” she said, curt. “She got drunk and puked in a cab. I had to help her.”

“How?”

“I paid for it. We do things for family.” A deep sigh escaped her lips as she dropped her files onto her desk. “I’ve been cleaning up after her forever. It’s so predictable.”

I sat opposite, watching as she fussed around with her bag and notes, rummaging for keys. “Maybe your perspective’s a little predictable, too.”

That made her pause. “What?”

“When Katie handed me those MMA tickets, it was because she couldn’t face you.”

Lizzie chuckled and resumed her rummaging. “Avoidance is one of her specialities.”

“Yeah, well, it must run in the family. If you keep rescuing someone all the time, you’re denying them the opportunity to learn from their own mistakes – to grow up.

She shrugged into her coat, studying me as if deciding whether I was just being a busy-body or I was actually giving her some sagely psychological insight. I guess she decided on the former. “Is there a polite way of saying ‘mind your own business’?”

I laughed lightly, not wanting to badger her. “Yes. ‘Please, shut up’.”

“Please, shut up.”

“No, I will not. You owe it to her and yourself to change the dynamic. Stop enabling her.” Well, not badger her _too_ much…

Lizzie hesitated, perhaps reconsidering her decision about me being a busy-body. She gave a tight smile and wished me good night as she left.

 

*

 

Katie was busy at the kitchen table, scrolling through her smart phone list of restaurants around her sister’s house. Who knew there was so much to eat in such a small area? Lizzie arrived home, dropping her bag and keys on the coffee table, her mood sombre as she took in the sight of her sister flicking about on her cell phone with a glass of gin beside her.

Katie was still engrossed in the app. “Hey, do you have any good Mexican around here?”

Lizzie sighed. “Villa del Sol.”

“Villa del Sol,” Katie glanced up and saw the expression on her sister’s face. “What’s wrong?”

“I have to stop,” Lizzie said with effort.

“Stop?”

“Yeah. And you have to stop, too.”

Katie wasn’t following. “Stop what?”

Lizzie’s eyes dropped to the glass of gin on the table. “The drinking. And my letting it happen. No more stepping in to make things go away. I did it with Mom. I’m not going to do it with you. Not anymore. You have to take responsibility.”

Katie scoffed, getting to her feet, the smile on her face bordering on a snarl. “It is so perfect that you are a cop, because you get to tell everybody what they do wrong and make everybody else feel like a failure.”

Lizzie was taken aback. “I don’t do that.” But inside she wondered, _do I?_

“Really?” Katie shook her head.

“You can’t drink if you want to stay here.” Lizzie kept her voice firm, holding back the tears that threatened to slip from her eyes. Dylan was right. She had to stop enabling Katie; she had to lay down the rules. Her sister would understand…

Instead, Katie snorted and picked up her gin, deliberately downing it in one gulp, then turned and walked up the stairs to pack her things.

Lizzie held back from running after her, from saying something to placate her, from softening her stance. Like their mother, Katie had made her choice and it was the bottle, not family.

 

*

 

I gave Andy a small break and showed him the barman skills I had gleaned from watching him work. I mixed a couple of mean G&Ts and slid one across the bar to him, imagining I was keeping some wild-west saloon, flinging shots of rot-gut over the polished wood to the cowboy opposite rather than some fashionable down-town New York bar called _Rafter’s_. He laughed. I honestly can’t get enough of hearing that magical sound.

I scooted around, sat beside him and we clinked glasses in a toast. “Well, it’s not quite the, uh, date night out I was hoping for, but I’ll take it.”

He smiled, apologetic. “I’m sorry. We’re short-staffed. I made the hostess a waitress, the dishwasher a busboy… which means _I’ll_ be washing dishes.” He gave a little fist pump of underwhelmed excitement. _“Living the dream.”_

I chuckled along with him, then became more serious. “You know my favourite part of the day? It’s when you come home. You’re exhausted but you’re happy. When you were a lawyer, you were never happy.”

He nodded, realising the truth in that.

“Now, I know the last few weeks have been difficult. And, of course, there was the landlord’s little surprise… But this is not a sign.”

He sighed, an apology in his eyes again. “Well, sign or no sign, we could lose our life savings on a gamble just because I always wanted to own a bar.”

I placed a reassuring hand across the nape of his neck. From that angle I could see the golden wedding band on my wrist beside that delightfully scruffy face I had promised to love, honour and sometimes obey.

“I do not consider this bar or you a gamble,” I said, sincerely. “You’re the best investment I ever made.”

Andy gave a shy smile, appreciative and embarrassed all at once. He’s said a number of times he doesn’t know what I see in him. For a smart man, he can be very dumb sometimes.

At that moment, Candice turned up to hand us our menus – like we didn’t know what was on offer. She wasn’t the brightest of the staff but she was young, eager and a genuinely nice girl, waiting for her big acting break. She hadn’t been ground down by the showbiz vicious circle of auditions and rejections yet – and I hoped she never would. Good people should have good things happen to them. Yes, I’m as guilty of the just-world thinking bias as anyone else, but as a psychologist at least I know I’m doing it.

“Hi,” she bubbled, “I’m waitress, and I’ll be your Candice tonight.” It took a moment for her to catch up with what she had said. “Oh! I mean…”

Andy patted her arm. “That’s all right, Candice,” he winked at me. “Uh, Candice has never waited tables before.”

“What?” I said theatrically, hopefully conveying my total disbelief in this.

She smiled, reassured. “Very different from showing people to their tables.”

For the first time, her consonants caught my ear. “Is that a Philadelphia accent I hear?”

Candice blushed. “Really? I’ve been trying to get rid of it. There’s not too many roles for Philly girls out there.”

Something tweaked in my brain.

 A connection was made somewhere in my subconscious that forced its way up to my conscious as a vision, a tumble of images and sounds. In my mind’s eye I was talking to Nicki that first day again. “I’m hearing a slight coastal, New England accent? Could you be from Boston? Rhode Island? Maine?” She was shaking her head, looking at me with big, deceitful eyes.

Then there was the manager of the shelter pointing out the landline phones, telling me, “They don’t have cells, so I let them use our phones to call home.” I could picture Nicki, sitting at the tables there, receiver to her ear and cord tangled around her finger while she spoke.

Then I saw the body of Caleb on the path in the gardens, then the bloated body of the photographer, and my voice played over the top of both as I told Jasmine, “She may not have been our problem up till now, but she was somebody’s. You don’t just start with savage murder. You work up to it.”

My vision faded.

I realised Andy and Candice had left to do something – I didn’t even notice them go. I fumbled my cell from my pocket and speed-dialled Lizzie, who answered immediately as if she had been awaiting my call. “Lizzie? We need to find Nicki’s first victim,” I said, my vision giving me conviction. “And I know how.”

 

*

 

We grabbed Jasmine on her way into work and bought her a coffee at the Espresso Bus that wisely parked in front of the 11th Precinct, its customer base. If the Bus caffeine didn’t wake you up, the garishly-bright orange paintwork would certainly do the trick. Armed with our coffees, Lizzie and I sandwiched the boss and delivered our latest tag-team brief.

“Based on Nicki’s accent, we narrowed her home down to New England,” I said. Tag to Lizzie.

“The kids in the shelter use the landline, so we went through all the calls to New England.” Lizzie said.

“We found three calls to a boarding school in Newport, Rhode Island.” Tag back to Lizzie.

“The headmaster ID’d Nicki’s photo. Real name: Amber Burnett. The girl in the wheelchair, who was Nicki’s roommate, is still there.” Tag to me.

“We called the Newport PD. There’s a reason she hid her past.” I couldn’t help the smugness in my smile.

Jasmine understood. “It wasn’t her first murder.”

I winked, clicked my tongue in the affirmative. Jasmine went to her office, Lizzie and I went to Newport.

 

*

 

Lizzie and I met up with Ella at the boarding school, in the busy courtyard eating area outside the dining hall. It reminded me of the neat courtyard where I had interviewed Nicki, but whereas that was a cool, guarded area, this was a vibrant and bustling place energised by the young people around us. Ella was a pretty thing in colourful, almost bohemian garb, with loose blonde curls and bright azure eyes. The photo did not do her justice.

We didn’t ask why she was in a wheelchair but the age and wear of it, and her ease in its use as she parked at a table, implied it was a long-term thing. We chatted casually at first about school, then moved on to Nicki/Amber. At mention of her friend, Ella frowned.

“People have always been jealous of Nicki,” she said, using our name for Amber.

Lizzie leaned towards her. “Ella, we need to talk to you about something serious.”

The girl nodded, resignation in her movements. “Is it Brendan?”

I caught Lizzie’s glance at me and knew she had the same thought – _what does she know about Brendan?_ We knew only about his murder, not really about him. Lizzie gave no hint of uncertainty and said simply, “Please tell us what you know.”

“He’s a townie. He was Nicki’s boyfriend, but he kind of disappeared. She told the cops that she didn’t know anything, but they don’t believe her. That’s why she ran away.”

There was conviction in her voice but whether it was because she believed her friend was innocent or because she _wanted_ to believe it, was hard to tell. Not without more questions, anyway.

“What do you think, Ella?”

“She really liked him,” she said. “It doesn’t make sense that she could…” her brow creased in confusion. Ah, she _wanted_ to believe.

Lizzie was gentle. “Ella, the Newport Police have found Brendan’s body. His throat was cut.” The girl gasped, but Lizzie continued. “That’s the same way two men in New York were killed last week.”

I made it as close to home as I could. “A photographer and a young man – Brendan’s age, your age.”

Her mouth hung open is horror. “Oh, my God…”

I think in her heart she knew what her friend was capable of but there had been a hope... “Ella,” I said softly, “I know this is moving very, very fast, but we think Nicki killed Brendan and these two men. Will you help us?”

She stared down at her fingers knotted on the table in front of her for some time before she gave a nod. Understandably so. It is never easy to discover your trust has been betrayed.

 

*

 

We brought Ella back to the H. Roughan Medical Centre, explaining our plan along the way. We sat her on a seat at one of the picnic tables in that manicured courtyard, pushing her wheelchair off to the side of the stairs at the building entrance. Far enough away that it was not obviously hers. To anyone watching, like the guards in the yard, she must have just come out of the centre and taken a seat, waiting for someone to show up.

After speaking with Dr Chandler and arranging for Nicki to have her visitor, Lizzie and I walked back to the courtyard. From the second floor we could see our bait at the table below. I was explaining to Lizzie what I had figured about the relationship of our two girls.

“Ella’s a lonely kid. Along comes Nicki, beautiful, exciting, pays her attention, and soon Ella’s devoted…”

“That I get,” Lizzie said, “But given who Nicki is, why befriend Ella?”

It was complex, and yet simple. “Ella’s her plaything. Sociopaths will continue a relationship as long as they get something from it.”

“Huh. Never a bad idea to have a loyal acolyte who will lie for you.”

“And tell you what the police are asking once you’ve fled to New York.” We paused at the window and looked down as Ella looked up. “Showtime.” I brought my walkie talkie to my face and spoke into it. “Okay Ella, just like we said.”

Ella’s long hair hid her earpiece and microphone but not her trepidation. “I’m scared. She’s gonna hate me…”

“She’s sick, remember?” In the car I had explained my sociopath theory and possible treatments for Nicki. At heart, Ella was still loyal to her friend. “You’re helping her.” I added.

 

The main door buzzed and unlocked. Nicki stepped out of the centre, flanked by a guard, and looked around the nearly-empty courtyard. At the same time, Lizzie and I moved downstairs, listening to the conversation on my radio.

“Hey, Nut!” Ella yelled, all bouncy and happy – what an actress she turned out to be.

But Nicki might be one better. She came down the stairs to the table, walking past the wheelchair without a blink, her eyes fixed on the blonde bohemian girl. “Do I know you?” she said, her eyebrows squinched into that confused expression again. She noted the guard beside her but he continued walking on to the far side of the yard.

“Amber? It’s me, Elle’s Bells.”

Suddenly Nicki was overjoyed. She slid into the seat beside Ella. “Amber? Is that my name?”

Ella took her hand in hers. “I’m your roommate. I’m your best friend.” She gave a happy gasp. “Your hair looks awesome! I didn’t know it was gonna be that blonde.”

Lizzie and I were in position behind the doors, watching the show. I gave Ella feedback on the radio. “Great, Ella. Now, get into it.”

Out at the picnic table, Ella’s face became more serious and she leaned in closer to Nicki, confidingly. “So, the cops found Brendan by the marsh. Right where you guys used to always meet up.”

Nicki blinked those big eyes, flicking them up to the distant guards and back. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t worry,” Ella grinned, squeezing her hands in reassurance. “I told them that you didn’t leave the room after dinner. And they found some footprints. They asked me what kind of sneakers you had.”

I spoke into the radio again. “Keep the story going, but tell her you want to go to the restroom.”

Ella gave Nicki a sly smile. “I told them you only wear flats. Oh, and check this out…”

Nicki leaned forward, eager.

“Actually,” Ella gave a little wince, “first, can we go to the restroom?”

Nicki leapt to her feet and grabbed the wheelchair at the stairs. As her hands touched it the main door buzzed and unlocked – and Lizzie and I descended the stairs in what I like to think is our ‘gotcha!’ moment. Nicki looked up at us with a fleeting expression of surprise at being caught out – the first genuine expression I think I had seen from her.

“If you can’t remember Ella,” I said, “how do you know she uses a wheelchair?”

“Guess I made a mistake,” Nicki said, glancing over her shoulder at her friend. Ella lowered her head in guilt. She needn’t have. Nicki’s voice, attitude, her whole demeanour seemed to change, to grow harsh, cold. The real Nicki smiled at me, mocked me. “Took you a while, though. Thought I was home free till I saw Elle’s Bells.” She chuckled at her friend’s anguish even while Lizzie locked on the handcuffs. “She’s a pathetic loser.”

Lizzie gave her a push forward, “Let’s go, Amber.” The two officers came to assist and took her away with a stiff, ‘come on’.

 

*

 

I had a chance to ask her a few questions while they processed her at the centre, put her into her prison jumpsuit and call for transport to jail. There were things I had to know and now she had no reason to lie – she could brag to her cold-little heart’s content.

“Why?” I asked. “Why did you kill them?”

“Why not?” she laughed. “They didn’t give a damn about me. The photographer said he’d get me modelling jobs. And then the bastard stole my bag.”

“Did Gene know anything?”

“He’s a moron. I’d just tell him what to draw.”

“And Caleb?” The sad young man’s face was in my head.

“We went to his room to get money for dinner. That hick had like four hundred dollars in his drawer.” She thought this was hilarious.

“And none of them fought back?”

Nicki gave me a grin, one that was both chilling and unforgettable. “We’d get busy… know what I’m saying? And then after, they’d be lying there, eyes closed, big smile on their face, and I’d just…”

The police led her out to the transport past me and Lizzie. She was in her baggy orange corrections jumpsuit and restraint belt, those doe-eyes now devoid of any semblance of humanity as she looked me up and down, smiling and cruel, the real Amber now on display. 

 

*

 

Lizzie and I returned to Dixon’s Corners and the Troyers to tell them we had arrested their son’s killer. Cold comfort but, I told myself, I had kept my promise to Caleb’s mother. They were duly grateful, sitting us down at their dining table for tea and scones with preserves while we explained. Even Mr Troyer seemed less frosty. Perhaps their shared grief had allowed them to share other emotions, to share a spark of warmth that must have been there all along.

I produced a letter discovered during the investigation and handed it to Mrs Troyer.

“We found this in Caleb’s apartment. It’s addressed to you.”

She took it with trembling fingers and opened it, reading the neat handwriting several times before explaining it to her husband. “He wants our blessing to study piano.”

They exchanged puzzled glances.

Lizzie opened a portable video player and slid it across the table. “We thought you might like to have this.”

Mr Troyer seemed horrified at the notion of technology. “We can’t accept it.”

His wife cut him off, her hand resting on his as she saw the image on the screen was her son. “Oh, God would understand.”

Then he saw the image as well. Lizzie pressed play and the room was filled with the delicate sound of Caleb playing a light classical piano piece for the Julliard audition. They both stared in wonder, tears trickling down Mrs Troyer’s face as she gave an ‘oh’ of surprised delight and terrible sadness.

Mr Troyer stared, mouth open, equally astonished. I thought he was about to object but instead he said simply, “That’s my son.” With pride. I wished Caleb had been there to hear it.

 

*

 

Rafter’s was relatively quiet when I strolled in. By that I mean it was as busy as usual but the patrons were not the raucous, sport’s night crowd. Not yet, anyway. I think a game of something was playing later somewhere and that would draw in the louder customers. For now, though, it was the dining and early drinks folks occupying the seats and the barstools, chattering and having a good time.

I settled onto a stool mid-bar where Andy was busy pouring a drink – surprise, surprise.

“Hi,” I said, tentatively happy but waiting to see how he was.

“Hey,” he said, a smile on his face.

This seemed promising. “Forty-eight hours is up.”

Andy flicked his head towards the window end of the bar where Mr Ambrose sat shoulder-to-shoulder with a half-dozen young things who hung on his every slightly-slurred word. “He’s already taking advantage of the free booze.”

 I had to contain my squeal of relief. “We have a new silent partner?”

“Oh, I think he’s going to be anything but silent.” He didn’t seem too concerned as he poured us shots of his finest tequila. Team Fine and Dandy – plus one silent guy who drinks the profits. What could be better?

I raised my glass. “To following your dreams.”

He brought up his and tapped it to mine. “To relying on each other.”

We sculled our drinks – and it was, indeed, his finest tequila. I approved. “Mmm. I’m actually here with Lizzie. We’re having dinner to celebrate closing the case.”

Andy glanced towards a wall-side table. “Yeah, I don’t think she got the memo about the ‘celebrate’ part.”

I could see the back of Lizzie, her long blonde waves tumbling over her hunched, misery-radiating shoulders while she poked her drink with a straw. I picked up a couple of menus and made my way over to her. Some conversation and a Rafters Special steak sandwich would bring her out of her mood, depending on what had caused it. I could guess but as I’d never had a sister I couldn’t be sure.

“Hey,” I smiled, a friend indeed, if she was in need.

She poked her drink, staring up at me and summoning the courage to speak. Once she started it tumbled from her mouth. “So, I stopped by my house. Katie’s gone. She packed her things. No note.”

I didn’t interrupt, I just sat. She had to get this out.

“Our mom was an alcoholic. I spent high school trying to stop her from drinking herself to death while I was looking after Katie. Now Katie’s…” her voice dried in her throat from holding back the emotion threatening to burst free. “I’m losing her, too.”

I placed a hand on hers. “You were right to set boundaries.”

“I don’t know how to help…” she said, desperately.

She needed reassurance so I smiled as warmly as I could. “I haven’t known you for long, but one thing I know for sure is that you know how to help people.” She leaned her cheek into her palm, looking at me with a mixture of embarrassment and gratitude. Her and Andy were a perfect match. “You’ve even helped me,” I added.

“Even you?” she smiled gently, amused by my admission of a weakness.

I gave a “mm-hmm” of agreement. Oh, we all like to think we are invulnerable and it hurts to discover otherwise, to find we’re not perfect, and even more to have others realise this about us. But this is the truth of life and to be able to share this truth about ourselves, to share our vulnerability with someone, is what promotes trust and understanding between us. This is the basis for good friendships, for partners, and even for familial relationships - like that between sisters.

As if summoned by our conversation there was suddenly a person beside us – the elusive Katie. She was apologetic, nervous and reluctant to interrupt us but doing it anyway because she had apparently decided to stop avoiding. Good for her.

“Hi… sorry…”

I leapt to my feet, grabbing the menus and trying to escape, suddenly flustered, “Oh, hi. I’m just… I was just…” I pointed to the seat like an idiot. “Do you want to… why don’t you…?”

“Thank you,” she said, sinking into my chair.

I gave Lizzie an encouraging nod then raced away to give them room to stop avoiding.

Without looking at Lizzie’s eyes, Katie pulled out a silvery disc and slid it across the table. Lizzie had seen them before in the course of work and recognised an Alcoholic’s Anonymous token.

Katie sighed. “That’s my ten-month sobriety chip.”

This was a revelation to Lizzie. “You never… I had no idea that you were going to meetings.”

“I made it to ten months and fourteen days.”

“Wow,” Lizzie was impressed.

“And then two weeks ago, I got fired. And the next day, Trip dumped me…” Katie gave a rueful chuckle at this, “…for his mother’s oncologist. The woman who cured his mother’s cancer – and bought him a BMW.”

They both smiled at the ridiculousness of it.

“Wow,” Lizzie said, “some men are so easily swayed.”

“I know.” Katie became sombre again but she pushed on. “I fell off the wagon. Really hard. I was scared. I just needed to see you.”

Lizzie was mortified that she had let her sister down so hard, first by not realising what was going on and second by forcing her to leave. “Katie, I’m sorry… I didn’t know how to help… I…”

But Katie refused to have her sister feeling guilty. “You did! You did help. I needed a kick in the butt. That’s what I came for. That’s… that’s what I needed.” She shook her head, a note of fear in her voice. “I mean, I was spinning out, man. I mean…” her fingers played with the sobriety chip, realising how close alcoholics were to fear all the time.

She had lived with it for ages, felt it close every time she passed liquor stores and bars, saw other people drinking and having a good time. And she felt fear sour in her gut when she drank and realised she had no control over her craving, that _it_ controlled _her_. Alcoholics Anonymous had helped her as a road map to a destination of a better life but she had veered off the road. Lizzie, though, was her moral compass. She needed both for direction.

Katie tapped the token. “I… I went back this morning, and when I go back to Boulder, I’m gonna keep going.” She stared into the eyes of her sister, feeling as vulnerable as a child but seeing nothing in Lizzie’s face except for love and pride. It reassured her to continue. “I want to start over. You make me want to be a better person. You always have.”

Lizzie’s hands took hers and they both smiled at each other through tear-filled eyes, no longer sure what they had been avoiding for so long. They had never been so close.

  _END_ XXX

*****

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the book 'Murder Games' by James Patterson and Howard Roughan, Created for television by Michael Rauch, episode written by Christopher Ambrose. I absolutely don’t own anything or anyone, and I apologise if I've made a mess of the fine work of those writers. However, as a fan of movie and tv show novelisations, I really wanted to be able to read this series – especially after reading the delightful Murder Games novel, and especially this episode with its controversial parts and the reworked parts. I’ve amalgamated the two versions into one, which hopefully works. As I said in the blurb: Any complaints – I’m sorry. Any praise – thank the original writers for their fine work, as I do.


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